Breaking Point
by ILikeMovies
Summary: When Peggy and Steve are kidnapped, they learn that Bucky has survived the fall from the train in the Alps. Now, it's up to them to find Bucky and keep each other alive. (Steve!whump)
1. Chapter 1

**Hi guys. So, I'm trying my hand at fanfiction for the first time in years. I hope my writing skills have improved. I know this chapter probably doesn't make all that much sense, and you might have a few complaints. Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments. However, I just ask you to give the chapters that will (eventually) follow a try because that's when I'll explain a few things like why everyone acted like they did, and so on.**

 **Please, enjoy! Thank you for reading.**

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Peggy's hands were a little bit clammy, though she would never tell anyone that. It happened every time; whenever she saw him, a strange sense of uncertainty mixed with excitement. She believed that she managed to hide it quite well; she had time to prepare for it, usually. She always made sure that her hair was pristine, her full lips perfectly shaded red, her make-up delicate and ladylike. She wanted to look good - for him.

This time, though, she hadn't been expecting to see him. She had snuck into a quiet bar a few miles from base to have a drink, unwind from a hard day. She never saw anyone from base at the bar - at least, no one she recognized immediately - so it had become somewhat of a safe haven for her. One drink was all she usually had, but the warmth of the burning alcohol cascading down her throat soothed her instantly. She limited herself to once a week, saving the precious escape for only the most unbearable of days.

Often, her thoughts would drift from ones of combat, casualties and responsibilities, to ones of him: his thick, blonde hair that was always styled so immaculately (though, she preferred it when his hair was tousled and dirtied from a long, successful mission); his bright, blue eyes always shining with optimism and youth; his slightly lop-sided smile, red lips and perfect teeth. His voice. The way it oozed like honey - sweet and soothing, calming in the most stressful situations.

So, seeing him step into the bar that night surprised her. She had hardly expected to see him out at all, never mind at _that_ bar. He had lost his best friend only days prior, and last time she had seen him he was broken. She could vividly recall the pain in his eyes as unshed tears welled, the way his face crumpled despite his best efforts to suppress his grief.

He looked better - not as lost - but the grief was still there, masked but not gone. He was alone, still in his military uniform. His head hung low as he slowly made his way towards the bar and sat down. The other patrons glanced at him - a few of them excitedly pointing him out to their friends - but no one bothered him. Peggy was glad; he needed the opportunity to grieve without being expected to be Captain America, and face all of the bravado and stoicism that accompanied the title.

He ordered a glass of water - alcohol having no effect on him anyway, thanks to his fast metabolism. Peggy watched him for a long time, the soft noise of music and laughter around her blurring into a low, dull buzzing. The glass of water looked small in his large hands as he slowly, shakily moved it along the wooden bar counter. The dull lighting made it hard to see his face, to see his expression.

She hesitated, the urge to approach him difficult to suppress. She was drawn to him in a way that she had never been drawn to a man before. She had been drawn to him long before he became the super soldier that he was, long before he was chosen for the trial. She was drawn to him from the second she saw his skinny frame and hopeful gaze. But she couldn't tell anyone, couldn't let anyone know. Slowly, reluctantly, she stood and approached him. Her thick heels made loud, sharp clunking noises on the wooden floor.

"Needed a break, soldier?" She asked, smiling coyly as she slipped between the bar stools beside him and leaned on the varnished counter. She was still in her uniform, too - crinkled from a long day, but still presentable. She straightened out her skirt as best she could before Steve turned to look at her.

"Good evening, ma'am," he said, standing with a sense of urgency. She liked that: the manners engrained so deeply within him.

They both stood awkwardly for a second, watching each other but not making eye contact. "Sit down, Rogers," Peggy teased, and she did the same. She gripped the tumbler of whisky in her hand as though it was the only thing supporting her.

A brief moment of silence lingered between them before Peggy broke it: "How are you..." She trailed off, thinking better of it. _How was he_? Obviously, not good. Peggy had suffered many losses in her life, the most prominent one being that of her brother. She thought of him often, wondered whether she would still be where she was if he hadn't died. He was her best friend, the partner in crime during her childhood. But, the circumstances had been drastically different, and his death - though heart-wrenching, life-shattering - ha sheen different; she hadn't watched his death. She knew she shouldn't compare her experience to Steve's current situation, they she admitted it had caused suppressed memories to resurface. She wasn't sure how to handle the situation, and so, she handled it awkwardly.

"Okay," Steve replied. But he was lying. His voice hitched and his face crumpled again. He wasn't looking her in the eyes; he couldn't. He blamed himself and she knew it. She noticed - for the first time - that his military uniform wasn't ironed. That was unusual for Steve, who took just as much pride in his appearance as he did his manners.

"It's not your fault," she offered, uncertainty evident in her voice. He was the only person who had the power to make her feel like a teenage girl with a crush: giddy, but out of her depth. She had been engaged once, to a wonderful man, but he hadn't been the right man. She had struggled with the decision to break off the engagement at the time, but now - knowing what it was to be swept off her feet - she was glad she had done it. Even he had not made her feel like Steve did.

Steve shrugged, gulping so hard that she heard it.

She sighed and glanced around the small, square bar. The other patrons had significantly dwindled in number as the night wore on. In the far corner, a slightly rowdier group was finishing off a game of pool. They were drunk and happy, and that gave Peggy an idea. She sat down and turned to Steve excitedly.

"What do you drink, Rogers?" She asked, turning to him. Her large, dark eyes widened with enthusiasm.

"Alcohol - "

"I know," she cut him off. She risked placing a hand on his muscular arm, trying to ignore the electricity that surged at the touch. She suddenly felt flustered. Alcohol didn't have any effect on him, his metabolism breaking it down so fast that he couldn't experience any of the effects. "Humor me."

He watched her for a long moment, his eyes narrowed in thought. Eventually - after excruciating seconds of silence that unhinged Peggy slightly - he nodded. "I... uh, I don't know. I've never really drank before," he explained, slightly embarrassed. His cheeks turned a soft shade of red and he rubbed the back of his neck with a strong hand. He looked so young yet so wise; naive yet scarred. He was still the skinny, humble boy inside, though his tough, strong exterior indicated otherwise. His body had changed; his abilities had changed; but, his heart remained, his intentions still pure. And his eyes. His eyes still shone optimistically, even through the haze of grief.

Peggy smiled, her red lips in stark contrast to her white teeth. "Whisky?" She asked, though she wasn't really looking for an answer. She called for the bartender - an elderly man in a neatly buttoned shirt - and ordered a whisky (straight, no ice). She watched with a mixture of excitement and anticipation as Steve took a small sip. He pulled a face immediately, and moved his tongue around his mouth as though trying to rid it of the taste. Peggy couldn't help but laugh at the way his thick eyebrows bunched in confusion and disgust.

"The taste just doesn't get any better," he stated, unaware of how funny he looked and sounded.

"The taste isn't quite the point," Peggy teased, taking a large swig of her own drink. She emptied the glass and slid it closer to the bartender. The bartender held it and in the air and shrugged with one shoulder - offering a refill. Peggy shook her head and smiled politely. "Well, for most people, that is."

It took a second, but Steve eventually laughed, shaking his head and glancing at Peggy. He sighed and took another sip, this time his face less disgusted and more resigned. She smiled back, enjoying the sound of his laugh. It was a deep chuckle that came from his stomach.

Peggy turned from him and her gaze slowly traveled back to the group of men playing pool. For the first time, she noticed one of them staring at her and Steve - well, more Steve than her because before his arrival the man had had little to no interest. When he realized that she was watching him, he quickly pivoted on his heels and turned back to the group of men. He was fidgety, though - feet tapping, thin shoulders constantly shrugging. A thin sweat had clearly broken out on the back of his neck if the wet collar of his checkered shirt was of any indication.

Steve noticed her watching them, the frown on her face. He leaned in, close enough that Peggy could smell his subtle cologne, feel his hot breath fan over her face. She didn't turn to him though, watching the man in the plaid shirt. He kept glancing over his shoulder at them. He was trying to be subtle, but was failing miserably.

"Man in the green and brown shirt?" Steve asked, his gaze also firmly settled on the group of men.

Peggy nodded. "He's watching us," she whispered, narrowing her large eyes. Her heart remained steady, her breathing even, her thoughts clear. She knew trouble was around the corner; she could feel it with every fiber of her being.

Steve stood slowly, his gaze unmoving. His arms bulged in his blazer as his shoulders tensed defensively. "He's not causing trouble. _Yet_. Ma'am, I think it's best if we leave before trouble has the opportunity to start." He whispered, his deep voice low and dangerous. He could sense something, too.

Peggy nodded and stood. She reached for her bag to pay the bartender but Steve gently tapped her hand away and placed his own money on the table. He stood back, his attention still focused on the men, and held his hands behind his back formally. "After you, ma'am," he said, attempting a weak smile.

Peggy nodded, smiled, trying to ignore the growing sense of unease in the pit of her stomach. She felt safer knowing Steve was there to protect her, though she was more than capable of protecting herself. She didn't get as far as she had without proving that she was independent, strong, tactical. She had been accused of being too logical before, too precise, but that all seemed to be overridden by her heart when she was with Steve. Only around him did illogical thought seem attractive: kiss him, even though it's professionally unethical; hold him and be with him, even though he was never around for long enough, always in danger of death.

He held the heavy wooden door of the bar open for her, and she stepped out into the cool night air. There were very few cars parked outside the bar, hers being one of them. She turned to say goodbye to Steve - formally, professionally - once they were outside and the door was shut behind them, but he shook his head. "I'll walk you to your car, ma'am."

She obliged, bought she felt it was slightly unnecessary. She didn't mind being near him a little while longer, the stresses of her job seemingly forgotten when he was around. "This is me," she said, pulling her car keys out and unlocking the driver side door of the black car. The lights outside had seemingly burst, so most of the car park was bathed in darkness. Only the moonlight illuminated the shape of the car, made Steve's face barely visible. She couldn't see much else apart from silhouettes of cars, of Steve.

"This is me, Rogers," she said again softly when she noticed he hadn't moved, still standing mere feet from her but not looking at her. She was trying to maintain the poise she carried herself with at work, trying to suppress the urge to wrap herself around him. Something was bugging him, and she wasn't sure what. Something was bugging her, too. "Thank you." She said it more firmly this time.

Steve nodded, but he wasn't paying attention. His gaze was focused on something just over her shoulder. His eyes were narrowed, and his brow furrowed as though he thought he could see something but he wasn't entirely sure. Peggy frowned, turning to look at what had caught his attention, when suddenly his eyes widened and he grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her down. "Get down!" He yelled, just as a something exploded where her head had just been.

He pushed her to the ground, firmly but not harshly, so she was guarded by the metal frame of the car, but he hadn't been so lucky. She heard him groan, watched his body get thrown backwards as something hit him in the shoulder before he could get down beside her. He had saved her from something. _From what_? She was confused, a little frightened. Something else exploded above her head, leaving her ears ringing and her heart pounding. Something was raining down on her, but not water - _glass_? Her thoughts finally regained some form of coherency and she realized that the explosion had been the glass of the windows in her car shattering. She wasn't sure what had caused it.

She wasn't sure why they had shattered. Not until she saw Steve fall back violently, as though he had been punched. Something had hit him in the stomach. Her eyes widened and she screeched, holding her hands up over her head to protect herself from the glass and ... and _what? What had Steve been hit with_? His body slammed into the ground, the dust of the dry dirt erupting in a haze around him. She squinted, trying to focus on him. _Was he okay? Was he hurt_?

It was only as the dust settled hat she noticed the bright red (appearing black in the moonlight) streaked along the ground, along Steve's light brown clothing. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. She scrambled closer to him, suddenly not giving a crap about whatever - or _whoever_ \- the danger behind her was. As she neared him, her knees scraping against the gravel and glass and dirt, tearing her stockings and grazing her skin, she realized what it was that had shattered the windows, that had downed Steve: gunfire.

There was a bleeding hole in his left shoulder, and an oozing one in his stomach.

"Rogers?" She yelled, everything else blurring into nothingness as all that mattered was him. Her mind raced, uncertain of what to do next. She took a deep, calming breath, shutting her eyes. _Get a grip_. Then, suddenly, she remembered. In a second, her racing heart slowed, the roaring blood in her ears quietened, the sweat on her brow began to dry. She leaned forward and pressed down on the most severe of the two wounds - the one in his stomach - with as much force as she could muster. "Steve?" She said, just loud enough for him to hear.

He was dazed, but not unconscious. He frowned as she neared him, and watched her as she leaned forward - feeling to her like she was taking hours, but knowing that only a couple seconds had passed in reality. When she pressed down on his wound he bit back a pained scream, and his back arched against the pressure. He clumsily shoved her hands off of his body and said, "I'm fine. I'm fine."

"You're hit," she argued, shaking her head.

He was already getting to his feet, though it was clearly painful. Once his feet were beneath him, he couldn't straighten to his full height, and his injured arm hung uselessly at his side. He tested out the shoulder, wincing and wavering slightly on his feet before deciding the pain was bearable. She watched him, in awe. She had seen many soldiers hit in far less vital places, by far smaller caliber bullets, and stay down. He was badly injured, bleeding everywhere - over himself, over her, over the ground - but he remained determined and confident. She found herself whispering a thank you to someone - _anyone_ \- for the serum. It gave Steve the ability to withstand a lot more than the average man should be able to bear, to heal faster, to heal completely. He would be okay, she hoped.

Suddenly, behind her, the doors of her car swung open and she was dragged back to reality. She turned to face it and staggered to her feet in shock. Steve automatically stepped in front of her, shielding her, but she fought her way out of her grip and stood beside him. She could handle herself. Two men with guns stepped out of the car beside Peggy's calmly, dressed in black. The serum made his vision far better than the average man's, which explained his strange behavior beside her car. She was grateful once again for the serum. Two other men stepped out of the car parked a few parking spaces down, and neared her and Steve, guns drawn and ready to be fired. The group of men who had been playing pool exited the bar and continued a rowdy conversation as they headed for their car - the only other one in the car park, the one a row back from Peggy's.

"Get back inside!" She yelled, and she quickly reached into the waistline of her skirt and pulled out a gun. She pointed at the man nearest her, the biggest one. He was far taller than Steve, and far larger, too - unusual. She glanced back at the group of pool players and yelled, "Get back inside! _Now_!"

She was trying to help them, but they seemed to ignore her. She frowned, confused. They had ended their conversation abruptly but they were still nearing her. Suddenly, they, too, drew their guns and aimed them at Steve and Peggy. Peggy glanced at Steve, standing beside her. He was tense, his hands balled into fists at his side. The light was still too poor to see his face clearly.

"What do you want?" Steve asked.

They were surrounded and vastly outnumbered and outgunned. One wrong move and they could be riddled with bullet wounds. Peggy kept her gun trained on the largest man, though she knew it was futile. Neither of them could do a thing without putting the other in danger.

"We actually just wanted you, but the pretty lady is a bonus. Figured we could lure you in using her." One of the masked men replied. He had a strange accent, like he had been partly raised in one country but uprooted to another, more than once.

"Who are you?" Peggy asked, cocking an eyebrow. Each of the men had a gun, and all of them were now pointed at her.

"Doesn't matter," the masked man taunted - the leader, perhaps.

"Leave her alone," Steve said, his voice oozing anger, threat, the promise of violence. He neared the man who had done all the talking, and as he did so, two guns were suddenly pressed into the back of Peggy's head. She could feel the cool metal through her thick hair, could feel the force of the threat as her head jerked forward. Steve glanced at her as she involuntarily whimpered. "Let her go." He ordered. She had never heard his voice like that - so dark, so intimidating... _frightening_.

"One more move and my colleague over there will put a bullet through her head," the man with the funny accent warned. He neared Steve. He was short, but stocky. Peggy could make nothing else of him, his entire body covered in black clothing. One of the guns pressed to her head moved away, but the other one was shoved into her head harder, and she winced at the unwelcome tingling sensation it left.

"Drop the gun," someone behind her ordered.

She couldn't turn to see who it was, but the man had an American accent. She obliged, knowing that her small gun would do nothing to protect her and Steve from the threat surrounding them. The large man stepped forward and grabbed it from her, keeping his gun trained on her. He took it with a gentleness that took her by surprise, and the moonlight shone down on him just enough so that she could make out large, doughy eyes peeking out from behind a black mask. "Do you have another one?" He asked her, his voice soft - a mismatch to his build.

"No." Peggy spat. She was somehow remaining calm, rational enough. She could control her thoughts, but she couldn't control the fear-induced shaking of her hands, or the sweat beading on her upper lip.

"Search them," the leader said.

The large man gently patted Peggy down, careful to avoid any inappropriate places. She was surprised; something told her that he didn't want to do what he was doing, that he was forced to do it. Once he was satisfied that she was clear, he started for Steve, but the leader suddenly stepped forward, placing a hand on the large man's shoulder. "Michael," the leader said, a sudden sadistic quality in his voice, "let me do it to the Captain."

The large man - Michael - nodded and stepped back, raising his gun once again. Peggy no longer noticed the guns surrounding her, all of her attention focused on Steve and the leader, what the leader had in mind for Steve. He was inches from Steve, his hot breath fogging up in the dark night sky.

"You do anything, and the pretty lady is dead. Got it?" He whispered.

Steve nodded slowly. He was still bleeding, but he hardly seemed to notice.

Peggy gulped, nervous, but still more terrified for Steve's sake than her own safety. She curled her small hands into tight fists at her side. She watched, restraining herself as the urge to intercept the leader's advances became overwhelming. She didn't want to risk her life or Steve's by doing something stupid.

One of the men from the bar moved his gun to Steve's head, shoving it into the nape of Steve's neck more harshly than necessary. Steve didn't seem to react. When the leader approached him, Steve began to move and the leader tutted as the man with the gun slammed his weapon into the back of Steve's head. Steve jerked forward but recovered quickly.

"One more move," the leader seethed, "and the lady gets far worse."

Steve took a deep, calming breath and nodded, though his body trembled with the force of restraint. Peggy heard him groan deeply in frustration.

The leader patted Steve down slightly roughly, but nothing the latter couldn't handle. Until the leader reached Steve's stomach. He laughed a terrible, evil chuckle and tucked his gun into the waistband of his black cargo pants similar to those of a soldier. He lurched forward and gripped the tender flesh around the bullet wound, squeezing with all the strength he could muster. He seemed to be playing with it, like a toy. Steve yelped in agony and his legs gave way beneath him. As he fell forward, the leader caught him and whispered something in his ear that Peggy couldn't hear, before letting him fall to the ground in a trembling heap.

The men around them erupted in laughter - all except Michael. The leader looked proud of himself, chest stuck out.

Peggy gasped and turned to help him, but the gun held to her head was pressed in harder, reminding her not to do something irrational, futile. Tears of hatred and anger welled in her eyes, but she blinked them away quickly. She sniffed and straightened, staring straight ahead. She wouldn't let them see her worried; wouldn't let them know that they were winning. Whoever _they_ were.

"Beat him up a little, boys," the leader announced, dusting his hands off as if he had completed something worthy of praise, "hurt him just enough that he doesn't fight back." He turned and headed for the car beside Peggy's.

Peggy's eyes widened and she fought to reach Steve's prone figure. He was breathing hard, struggling to get back to his feet, his armed wrapped around his midsection. But there were too many men, and they all descended upon him at once. She saw him struggle, heard groans - from him and from the other men - as he fought them valiantly. He looked like he was winning (as expected), if the bodies being flung about were of any indication, until a gunshot tore through the air and his struggling ceased.

"Steve!" Peggy yelled, before she was gripped from behind by two strong arms, gentle but firm. "Steve!" She repeated, fighting the grip as best she could.

Suddenly, a searing, hot pain blossomed on her head and spread down her neck and back. Her vision blurred as something hot and sticky coated her head, her face, her neck. She gargled, grunted, tried to speak. She fought the approaching darkness for as long as she could, but eventually, her vision turned completely black and she was thrown into nothingness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi guys. So the information from the movies is drastically different to that from the comic books so the coming chapters are sort of going to use a bit of information from each. I hope you enjoy this next chapter. It focuses mainly on setting the scene, and the next few will take a closer look at developing Peggy and Steve's relationship and delving deeper into their memories and pain. Oh, yeah, and lots and lots of Steve whump!**

 **Thanks for your support!**

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She came to slowly, agonizingly slowly. Her eyelids were still so heavy. She kept her eyes shut for a while, gulping and exhaling deeply as a dull ache in the back of her head slowly grew into a fiery pain. She was lying on something hard, something cold and uncomfortable. _God, she was uncomfortable_. She wanted to move, to open her eyes, but her movements were sluggish and she couldn't concentrate. Her knees stung slightly and she wasn't sure why. Then again, her whole body ached.

She opened her eyes, wincing and hissing as the dull light overhead sent searing daggers into her skull. She shut them again and squeezed them tightly. She raised a shaky, weak arm and touched the aching spot on her head. What she could only assume was dry blood matted her hair and covered her neck.

"Come on," she said to herself, "open your eyes." She tried again, this time managing to keep her eyes open ever-so-slightly. Her vision was blurry at first, and she blinked quickly to clear it. She could make out a gray surrounding soon enough. She was in a concrete room: concrete walls, concrete floor ceiling, no furniture, only one light. She frowned, struggling to recollect her memories.

Slowly, she pushed herself up so she was leaning on her elbows, ignoring the nausea that accompanied the movement. She glanced at her knees and cocked an eyebrow at the sight; they were bloodied, scraped, dotted with glass and dirt. And, suddenly, it all came rushing back to her.

She gasped, her dark eyes widening in terror. The pounding headache was suddenly forgotten as her only concern became Steve. "Steve," she whispered to herself, managing to push herself to a sitting position. She glanced around the room in front of her, panicking. Her heart pounded so fast and so hard that it physically hurt. She felt like she was suffocating in her uniform.

Slowly, she rose to her feet, kicking her heels off unceremoniously. She had to use the wall for support as the world threatened to tilt and the contents of her stomach lurched unpleasantly. She gulped and swallowed the bile rising in her throat. She straightened, slowly, allowing her aching head to adjust to the change in position.

Then she saw him.

In her peripheral vision she could just make out a heap in the corner of the room. It was unmoving. She pivoted on the balls of her feet and started for the bloody figure. It was stifling hot in the small room, and a sheen of sweat had already formed on her forehead and upper lip.

She collapsed to her knees beside the heap, groaning as glass and stones were pushed deeper into her flesh. She ignored the pain, too consumed by panic and worry. She gently rolled the heap over, revealing a bloodied body. Steve's blonde hair was matted with drying blood, his face covered in bruises and gashes. He had been stripped of his clothes, and changed into a pair of black cargo pants much like those of a soldier, black combat boots and a white shirt - like a soldier in a silent movie. The white shirt was covered in blood already, seeped through so much that a puddle had even formed on the floor beneath him. Peggy slowly untucked the shirt and unbuttoned it, revealing the angry wounds in his stomach and shoulder - the ones she had already seen - and a new bullet wound in his rib cage. Clearly, nothing vital had been hit, but he had lost a lot of blood, and surely fractured a few ribs. Even the serum had a limit, and it hadn't yet been tested; she didn't want to put it to the test now.

Peggy gulped and hurriedly unbuttoned her jacket with trembling hands. She frowned, suddenly frozen: _why hadn't they changed her clothing_? She shook her head (regretting it instantly as pain flared down her neck and into her forehead); that was not her priority. She ripped the jacket off and balled it up. She lifted Steve's bloody mess of a head and placed her jacket under it. It was strange - that he wasn't reacting. She tried to pretend it was okay - that it was normal - though it was anything but. She untucked her beige button up shirt and took another deep breath. Her chest was tight, fear and anxiety gripping her. She gripped the sleeves of her shirt and tugged with all the strength she could muster, ripping them off the shirt by their seams. She slowly worked at the stitching until they were both long stretches of fabric. She tied them together as tightly as she could, pulling so hard that her fingers ached.

A soft groan distracted her from her mission and she glanced up, her eyes widening as she watched the prone figure in front of her begin to stir. She watched him for a moment longer, watching his face for any sign of pain, of confusion, but there was none. She slowly leaned in closer and cupped his strong jaw in her small hand. "Steve?" She asked, her voice sounding as unsteady as she felt.

She received no reply.

She sighed. Maybe it was better that he stayed unconscious for a little while longer; that way, he wouldn't feel the pain of her poor attempts at treatment. She had nothing other than the clothes on her back to help her help him. There was nothing she could use in the small room - no taps which meant no water, no bedding which meant no clean cloth.

She turned her attention back to the torn shirt in her hand and busied herself with thoughts of how to use them and where. Her muddled brain floated back to the concern of why they hadn't changed her. Clearly, they needed him, and not her. Either she was safe and he was in trouble, or vice versa; neither outcome was favorable. She glanced at Steve, pursing her lips in thought. She would have to get his shirt off of him somehow, but he was two-hundred-and-twenty pounds of pure muscle. In perfect health, she doubted she could pick him up whilst he was a dead weight, never mind suffering from a pretty severe concussion and sluggish coordination. She was nibbling her bottom lip, unaware of the sweat beading on her forehead, when another groan caught her attention. She blinked, trying to focus her hazy vision.

Steve groaned again, this time louder and longer. His face contorted in agony, and this time his body moved - a slight, halting change in position. His eyes fluttered open and he searched the room sluggishly at first, then - as realization hit - frantically. Peggy leaned over him and held his sweaty face in her trembling hands, but he couldn't seem to focus on her. He was breathing fast and unevenly as though he couldn't draw in enough breath and each attempt at it was painful.

"Steve," she said, trying to suppress her rising panic. She was getting hot, flustered; she had never seen him like this.

"P... Peggy?" He stammered, and his voice was strained with confusion and discomfort.

"Yes, Steve. It's me. You're all right, understood?" Peggy said, trying to sound calmer than she felt. She attempted to smile, but it looked more like a grimace. Steve's face was covered in blood, making it hard to identify any sign of recognition. "Steve, you're fine, as am I."

It took a while, but eventually his breathing slowed. His face was taut with pain, and Peggy found herself wondering how many hits and kicks and backhands he had taken whilst she had been unconscious. When he was calm enough, focused enough on her, Peggy smiled again - this time genuinely, relieved that he recognized her.

"Name?" She asked, watching his eyes. She knew that the serum could protect him from permanent mental damage, but she needed him to be on top of his game if they stood any chance of getting out of there.

"Steve Rogers," he answered, coughing violently. His entire body trembled. He pulled away from her and somehow managed to push himself into a sitting position, his back against the wall, legs splayed out in front of him. He was limp, shivering. "How long was I out?"

Peggy shook her head, her heart racing. "I'm not sure," she mumbled, fighting the urge to cry, "I'm not even certain how long I was out."

At that, Steve's head shot up and his eyes settled on her. They were wide - or as wide as they could get, considering how swollen they were - and swimming with worry. "Did they hurt you?" He asked, his voice steady despite how much his body shook.

"I'm fine," Peggy said, nodding emphatically, because she wasn't lying - physically, she could manage. She managed to maintain some sense of authority in her voice.

Steve's eyebrows bunched and his head tilted to the side. He looked at her - lost and close to tears. Peggy gulped, seemingly frozen in place with her aching knees on the hard floor. "There's blood on your neck," he whispered, but he wasn't talking to her. It looked, to Peggy, like he was chastising himself, blaming himself for letting them hurt her.

She sidled closer to him and hesitantly placed a hand on his muscular leg. "I'm okay," she said, the tone of finality in her voice cutting Steve off from asking her anything else. "Do you think you could take off your shirt?" Peggy asked, reaching beside her for the makeshift bandage. The warmth of his leg against her palm was a small, comforting distraction.

Steve nodded. He moved to take it off, but he stopped suddenly and groaned, throwing his head back, as soon as he tried to lift his arms. He bared his teeth and huffed, his body tense. Peggy watched him suffer through the pain, waiting patiently for it to subside. She could do nothing for him, and crowding him wouldn't help either.

"I'll help you," she said and she reached for the hem of his bloodied shirt. "Just lean forward."

He did as he was told, slumping forward. Peggy stretched the shirt to its limit, slowly lifting up his uninjured arm first. It took a lot of time, a lot of effort, and a few breaks so Steve could swallow down vomit before the shirt was off. Peggy's eyes widened involuntarily as she tossed the shirt aside and glanced at his torso. Most of him was covered in blood, and the parts that weren't were bruised or littered with red welts. _What the hell had they done to him while she had been out_?

"I'm going to wrap the worst of the GSWs," Peggy informed him, her gaze landing on the one in his chest. It was inflamed, red, surrounded by bruising. She shifted her position so she could look at his back and find the exit wounds. She found the one by his shoulder, found the one from his stomach wound - both large, ugly, messy, but not an issue in the larger schemes of things (thanks to the serum). What was an issue, though, was that there wasn't a third exit wound. The bullet that had entered through his rib cage was undoubtedly still stuck in there.

"Bloody hell," she swore softly.

"What?" Steve asked, breathlessly.

"I think there may be a bullet still in you," Peggy stammered, her sentence made up of disjointed, uncertain words.

Steve nodded. "I can feel it, I think. Every time I breathe, something scrapes my ribs." He sounded as bad as he looked. She flinched at his words, half in disgust and half in sympathy. She recovered quickly, pushing him back against the wall and carefully inspecting the wound by his ribs. If Steve had been a normal man, he would've been dead. She couldn't be sure, but she wasn't ruling out the possibility of internal damage. Steve groaned again, his hand automatically reaching out and grabbing Peggy's leg, hard enough to hurt. He retracted it quickly, barely able to speak through the pain. "Sorry, ma'am."

Peggy shook her head and grabbed his hand, squeezing it to comfort him. "I can't get it out - the bullet, I mean." Peggy stated, sounding detached. She had no equipment that she could use to remove the bullet, and reaching inside with her hand probably wouldn't do much good; even if (and only _if_ ) she could reach the bullet, her fingers would only make the wound larger, restart the bleeding, bruise the surrounding tissue and muscle.

"I know." Steve whispered. He was wheezing, and Peggy worried he had a punctured lung. "Don't need to wrap them up. The serum will heal them."

"But you're still bleeding," Peggy argued, gently prodding the bullet wound in his stomach. As she touched the area, the blood flowed anew. Steve gritted his teeth and arched his back slightly at the contact, but he got his twitching muscles under control and relaxed - only slightly. Her gaze traveled back to the angry wound on his chest. "And you definitely have broken ribs."

"They'll heal," he said firmly, a tone of finality abruptly ending the conversation for a few, long minutes.

"Humor me," she gulped, feeling helpless.

"You say that a lot," Steve teased, and he smiled for the first time since they had been there. His cracked lips began bleeding again, but the superficial wounds - like split lips - were healing quickly.

Peggy nodded, laughing in spite of herself. For a moment, she forgot where they were, and she enjoyed his company, reveled in it until a gasping cough snapped her back to reality. Steve was coughing, his right hand covering his mouth. As he pulled it away - his entire body shaking in misery - Peggy noticed blood that hadn't been there before. It was fresh: wet, bright, dotted across his palm. Her eyes widened and she looked at his face to see if he had noticed; his eyes were squeezed tightly shut.

"Steve, open your mouth," she ordered.

Steve's opened his eyes and frowned, taken aback by her alarm. "What?" He mumbled, confused.

"Open your mouth, bloody hell!" She said it firmly, but calmly. She took a deep breath and forced herself to maintain a stony expression.

He did as he was told, watching her all the while. His teeth were covered in blood that hadn't been there when he had smiled. Peggy gulped, her hands sweating, her heart thudding hard and loud, her mind racing. "Bugger," she whispered, falling back in despair. Steve looked at her, his own panic rising. "I think you might have internal bleeding."

"It'll heal," he whispered, but there was obvious anxiety in his hoarse voice. He hardly sounded - or looked - like himself, lost in pain and confusion and worry. His gaze was centered on a spot just over her shoulder. "Have you cleared the room?"

Peggy turned to look over her shoulder, her one hand flat on the floor to steady herself, the other on Steve's leg to comfort him ( _or her, maybe_ ). Her head was spinning, the world around her a blur for a second. Slowly, her vision cleared and she was able to focus on a metal door that she hadn't noticed was there before. "No. I wanted to check on you first." She replied. She didn't want to admit it, but when she had regained consciousness, her only concern had been Steve - all of her training forgotten in a moment of panic. She blamed it partially on her concussion but still chastised herself, telling herself never to be so oblivious again.

"We need to," Steve said, planting his hands on the ground and pushing himself up. He released a strangled cry and fell back onto the floor almost immediately. He gasped, tears welling in his hazy eyes.

"Stop being a bloody hero and think for a moment, will you?" Peggy scolded him, her lips pursing in anger and concern. His blue eyes opened to thin slits and his gaze met hers. She tried to ignore the pain etched onto his pale face, tried to pretend it didn't bug her. It was damn near impossible. "It's all well and good knowing that there's a way out, but what good will that do us if you can't even stand? Think, Captain, think." She was harsher than intended, and she broke eye contact as she saw Steve's face crumple in confusion. His breathing was strained, uneven, pained.

"Sorry, ma'am," he whispered.

"And stop being so bloody polite!" She yelled, standing suddenly. She curled her hands into fists at her sides and ignored the sudden nausea and dizziness. She gripped her damp hair with surprisingly steady hands and forced herself to take a deep breath. She was sweating, consumed by worry for Steve. The thought of not having him near her was frightening. She turned away from Steve and stared at a spot on the wall for a long time, trying to collect her thoughts. Once her heart was beating more slowly, and her eyes were no longer welling with tears, she turned back to Steve. "We sort you out first. Then we can search for a way out."

"Your knees," Steve whispered. Initially, Peggy assumed he was whispering so softly because he was ashamed of himself, but it was becoming increasingly obvious that it was because he was in pain.

Peggy frowned. "What?" She asked, glancing at her knees. The blood had dried into scabs. "Oh... I'm fine."

Steve nodded slowly, closing his eyes. She sighed, trying to ignore the fact that she needed to close her eyes, too. She gingerly lowered herself to the ground beside him, their arms touching. He was unusually warm, sweating more than the heat in the room actually warranted. Her lips formed a thin line, her brows cocking in concentration as she slowly, methodically picked the glass from her knees. The only sound in the small room was Steve's labored breathing. She turned to him and watched him, watched his face - twisted in agony.

Her heart skipped a beat whenever she looked at him. She felt the intense urge to touch him, to hug him, to be near him. She wanted to be with him all the time, to hear about his day, to tell him about hers.

"Peg," he wheezed, opening his eyes and distracting her from her thoughts, "did they do anything to you while I was..." He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

"No." She said with certainty. She glanced at his exposed upper body again, not sure where to start. Or how. She knew the serum would heal him, but she wanted to speed up the process, to ease his suffering. "How's the pain?" She asked, already knowing the answer if his taut expression was of any indication. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and take away the pain; she wanted to kill the men who had done that to him; she wanted to get him out of there and back to safety.

"Manageable," he lied.

"How long will you take to heal?"

Steve seemed to consider the question, gulping thickly. He shrugged, grimacing and barely suppressing a pained moan. "Couple days, probably." He ground out through clenched teeth. He was trembling.

Peggy nodded in defeat. They couldn't wait that long. They needed to get out as soon as they could. Finding out who took them and why could wait until they were back at base, safe and untouchable - and not bleeding all over the Goddamn floor. She reluctantly pushed herself back to her knees and set about tying her makeshift bandage around Steve's chest to stop the bleeding. "Sorry," she repeated, over and over, as Steve grunted and seemed to slowly lose consciousness. He was propped forward so she could reach around his back, his sweaty head pressed tightly into her neck, leaning on her for support and comfort. The pressure was almost overwhelming. The other wounds had nearly stopped bleeding already, but were still gaping and angry and inflamed.

Suddenly the door to the room swung open and hit the wall with a bang. Peggy gasped and spun around, scrambling back until her shoulders were flat against the wall. Men dressed in black clothes and masks entered the room, and the scrawniest of them led the way. Peggy realized she was shaking nervously, and forced herself to stay as still as she could. Beside her, Steve had snapped back to full awareness and had managed to push himself to his feet. He was swaying slightly, hunched and leaning on the wall for support, but standing nonetheless.

"You," the scrawny man said - the same man that had done all the talking at the bar, "you put three of my men in hospital. Two of them are in a coma and one of them might never be able to walk again." He was pointing at Steve, stomping forward as though he intended to throw a punch.

Peggy - wide-eyed and panting - pushed herself up slowly, using the wall as support. She glanced at Steve, saw a quick wave of regret and panic wash over his face. The leader from the car park stopped mere inches from Steve's face, but said nothing. Peggy watched, her breathing steadier and more even than before. She glared at the man.

"They were good men," the leader continued in his strange accent.

Steve nodded, "Send my regards." There was a hint of remorse in his words, but that was mostly overpowered by the overwhelming sarcasm. The leader tensed and drew his hand back as though he was about to hit Steve; Steve didn't even flinch. The leader took a deep breath and let his hand fall. "Who are you?" Steve asked, his voice just above a whisper.

The leader laughed sadistically trough his mask and turned back to his friends. They, too, laughed. All except one. "We did a number on you, Captain," the leader mocked, strolling back to his friends nonchalantly.

Peggy turned to Steve. He was leaning heavily on the wall, smearing blood on the gray concrete. He was visibly shaking, but his face was emotionless. She took a deep breath and snapped, " _We_? Correct me if I'm wrong, but I didn't see you do anything. Anything other than talk. Your friends did all the hard work, it seemed to me." She was facing the leader, daring him to do something to her so she could get close enough to hurt him.

She knew immediately that the leader would react badly, but she didn't regret her choice of words. The leader pivoted instantly and started for her, wrapping a surprisingly strong hand around her thin neck and slamming her against the wall. She instinctively balled her hand and slammed it against his temple, her punch lacking strength but making up for it in aim. His head whipped to the side as he cried out, but, before he could react, Steve had him pressed up against the wall adjacent to Peggy. Peggy dropped to her knees once the grip around her neck was released, gasping for air, her hands gently cradling her bruised neck.

Steve slammed a large fist into the leader's face, and blood automatically gushed from his clearly broken nose. Peggy gasped and a scrambled to her feet as the three other masked men approached Steve, guns at the ready. "Steve," she called, just as he landed another punch to the man's stomach. The leader's body twisted awkwardly in pain as his hands clawed at the hand around his neck. Steve - as wounded and weak as he was - was still stronger than the leader. "Steve!" She yelled again.

She rushed forward and wrapped an arm around he smallest of the three other men's neck. She squeezed, resisting the urge to release him as he smashed his elbow into her stomach. Pain blossomed, but she shoved it to the back of her mind. She pushed him forward, simultaneously spinning him around as she steadied herself and smacked her elbow into his face. He stumbled back but recovered quickly and they grappled for a moment. She fought him off as best she could, but she was distracted by a cry - one that sounded like Steve's. She turned towards the source of the sound, making a vital mistake; her opponent grasped the opportunity to wrap his arms around her neck and hold her in a choke hold so tight that her vision turned black around the edges.

Suddenly the man holding her dropped, a swift kick from Steve knocking the former out instantly. Peggy gasped, stumbling forward and leaning against the wall heavily. She was wheezing, gasping, trying to slow her rapidly beating heart. She glanced at Steve. He still had a bloodied hand around the leader's throat, pressed against the wall, and another one of the men was unconscious at Steve's feet. The last of the three men - large and stocky ( _must have been Mark_ ) - was watching from the doorway. Glancing over his shoulder and back to them constantly.

"Mark," the leader screamed through tightly clenched teeth, struggling weakly against Steve's grip, "what are you doing? Help!"

Peggy watched, too weak and flustered to react. Mark hesitated, making eye contact with her for a moment, before rushing forward and grabbing Steve by the shoulders. He swiftly landed a punch (lacking any real power, but seemingly on purpose); what it lacked in power, it made up for in aim. The punch landed on Steve's rib cage, directly on his bullet wound and broken ribs. He screamed and his grip on the leader loosened as he dropped to his knees heavily and held his side in his shaking hands. He was curled in on himself, gasping and groaning with every breath as he seemed to swallow down the urge to vomit. He placed one hand on the ground and pressed down until his knuckles turned white as though he was trying to ground himself.

Peggy gulped, trying to swallow her own urge to vomit as the world tilted around her and her thoughts swam. She reached for him blindly, struggling to keep herself upright. Mark backed away, as though he immediately felt remorse for his actions. His doughy eyes made contact with Peggy's and she held it for a few seconds until he eventually looked away.

The leader fell to the ground, gagging. He was wheezing and gasping and groaning - a bit dramatically. When he had regained enough composure to pull himself together, he stood on shaky legs and landed a solid kick to Steve's chest. Steve cried out and landed roughly on the ground, barely holding on to consciousness. He was deathly pale and sweating profusely beneath the blood. Peggy let herself fall to the ground beside him and gently lay a clammy hand on his forehead; he was burning up. She gulped loudly and wrapped her hands under his armpits, pulling him up as she positioned herself so that his heavy upper body was resting on her folded legs.

He fought the pain for a long time as the leader straightened himself out. Two of the men were still unconscious and wheezing painfully. The leader couldn't quite straighten to his full height and he was still barely able to draw in a breath.

"Right," he announced, just as a group of heavily armed, masked men charged into the room. He shouted something in a language unfamiliar to Peggy and four of the armed men exited the room. The others remained at the doorway, guns aimed at Steve and Peggy. Peggy watched, no longer scared, no longer worried - resigned, now. She gently tucked Steve's drenched hair behind his ears and hushed him soothingly. "My name is Hagen," the leader continued, clearing his throat as though nothing had happened, "and we've taken you for a very specific reason."

"What could that be?" Peggy snapped, rolling her eyes. She ignored the ache spreading through her body, focusing all of her attention on the badly wounded and bleeding super soldier on her lap. The gunshot wound in his chest was bleeding once more, and bruising was already flaring; she would be very surprised had his broken ribs not cracked further.

"I'm not talking to you, woman!" Hagen yelled, spit mixed with blood flying from his mouth.

Steve struggled to get off of Peggy's lap, barely stifling a pained groan. He pushed himself onto his elbows, shrugging off Peggy's grip of protest. "Don't," he began, breathless and hoarse, "talk to her... to her like that." He glanced at Peggy pleadingly and she understood immediately. She wrapped her hands around the small of his back - hidden from view - and gripped him tightly as he planted his hands firmly on the ground and pushed himself to his feet. He swayed dangerously for a moment, her grip tightening, but remained upright. Color drained from his face, and his shoulders slumped weakly, but he still looked vicious. His one hand was wrapped around his chest as though he was holding himself together. Peggy stood at his side, dwarfed by his size.

"Why? Why did you take us?" Steve asked, his strangled voice barely above a whisper.

"We need you, Captain Rogers to retrieve something - or someone, more like it - for us," Hagen began, his hands clasped behind his back as he paced. Peggy sighed: he was far too dramatic for her. She faced Steve, smiling ironically. His hair was tussled and dirty just the way shel liked it, but - for the first time - she hated the way it looked, hated what it meant - that he was injured, in pain, lost.

"What... _who_?" Steve asked, his swollen and bruised eyes narrowing.

Peggy cocked an eyebrow in curiosity. "And why?" She asked, her voice sounding as tired as she felt. She slowly returned her gaze to Hagen, leaning in closer to Steve. She needed his support just as much as he needed hers - but for different reasons. Seeing him like that scared her, and feeling him there reminded her that he was strong.

"A few days ago, your friend - James Barnes - fell off of a train, and is presumed dead, correct?" Hagen asked.

Beside her, Steve tensed and his muscles began to tremble violently. Her own body tensed involuntarily. She gripped his hand so that he knew she was there, but he seemed too caught up in his own world to return the gesture. His eyes were as wide as they could get, clouded with distant memories and grief. "He's... _what_?" Steve stammered, his gruff voice tinged with agony - emotional and physical.

"He could not have survived that fall." Peggy stated coldly, aware of how harsh her words were as Steve flinched beside her.

"Ah," Hagen mused, laughing. The four men who had left a few minutes ago returned, armed with stretchers and medical supplies. For a moment, Peggy hoped hey might be there to help Steve, but she knew it was wishful thinking. They settled beside their fallen comrades and set to work. Not a single person paid them any attention. "But he did - barely."

"I, you..." Steve began, but his words ended in a strangled sob. He took a shaky breath and suddenly ripped himself from Peggy's grip, heading for Hagen. He halted in his tracks immediately as the crowd by the doorway raised a slew of weaponry at him and Peggy. "How?"

"We don't know," Hagen shrugged, clearly reveling in Steve's pain. "We don't have him, if that's what you're thinking."

"Then, where is he?" Steve yelled, jabbing a finger at Hagen. His face was red with anger.

Peggy shook her head and took a few tentative steps forward. "Who are you?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Hagen asked, laughing maniacally.

Peggy frowned, uncertain and wary.

Hagen inhaled deeply and turned his attention back to Steve. The atmosphere in the small, concrete room was tense. Peggy glanced at Steve, so rigid that his muscles bulged unnaturally; at Mark, awkward and slightly nervous between Hagen and Steve. She glanced over the crowd of armed men by the door, but could only make out the end of a dark hallway behind them. Her sweaty hair hung annoyingly in her face, and she shoved it behind her ears, suddenly feeling claustrophobic.

"The Soviets took him." Mark offered at last, earning an angry glance from Hagen.

"They... why?" Steve stumbled over his words, his brow furrowed and his rigid stance went lax as he stumbled backwards. Peggy could almost see him falling apart as his broken heart and traumatized mind struggled to piece that new information together. She watched him, tears welling in her large eyes as she once again felt helpless.

Hagen ignored Steve's question, pivoting and heading for the door. A few hushed words in another language and a slight hand gesture had the armed crowd suddenly filing out of the room. Hagen stood to the side and watched as the four men working on their two fallen comrades hurried out of the room, clutching the stretchers and medical supplies tightly.

"Damn it, why and how do the Soviets have him?" Steve yelled, finding energy to rush forward, but he was once again stopped in his tracks. A nod from Hagen informed Mark of what to do: he pulled a baton from a holster in his belt and landed a hard, debilitating blow to Steve's chest. Steve collapsed, holding himself up on one knee and gasping for breath that just wouldn't come. Normally, Steve would have easily deflected the hit, but he was so focused on Bucky, so focused on his broken heart and crushed spirit. He wasn't himself, and - if Peggy was honest with herself - he hadn't been since he had lost Bucky a few days ago. She doubted he would ever be the same again without his best friend and brother beside him.

Peggy heard herself yelling, but it felt distant, and she ran forward and wrapped a protective arm around Steve's shaking, bleeding form. She maintained eye contact with Hagen - his gray eyes empty and emotionless. Mark backed away and headed out the door hurriedly, unable to look back at Peggy and Steve. She fought back tears, but failed miserably. "Steve?" She whispered, grabbing him and pulling him down with her. She knelt on the floor and roughly positioned him on her lap. He was out of it, too far gone to even register her presence. She was scared.

"Why do you need us?" Peggy asked, not sure wether she was more angry or more panicked.

"I only need him, Miss Carter. All you are is insurance that he's done as told." Hagen explained flippantly.

Peggy bit her bottom lip so hard that she drew blood. She became all too aware of her expendability, and all too aware that Steve's torture was only just beginning. "What does he have to do?" She asked, hoping her weakness was hidden from her voice.

"He will find Barnes and bring him back to us. And then... well, then the world says goodbye to their beloved hero for once and for all." With that, Hagen left the room. He slammed the door hard, making Peggy jump as tears rolled down her cheeks in streams. She glanced at Steve, lost in the battle against pain on her lap. She wasn't sure if he had heard any of that; then again, she wasn't sure it mattered if he had. He was a broken man beside her - physically and mentally.


End file.
